A Forgotten Song
by KyMahalei
Summary: There was one song that was left unsung. Built directly onto one of Aearwen's dribbles. She wrote the first 100 words . Thanks also to Darth Fingon for providing the correct Sindarin. Please take a minute for feedback. MEFA 2010 Third Place Winner
1. Chapter 1

_My sincere thanks to Aearwen who allowed me to use one of her "Little Bits" to jump start my own story. (The first 100 words are absolutely hers.) She was also generous enough to beta the piece, which I am grateful for. _

The Forgotten Song

The tourists listen and then drop coins that will provide him with food and a shelter for the next night into the leather-covered case. It is all he requires.

How long he's been there, playing that lap harp with burn-scarred hands and singing songs that make the tourists gather round to listen over and over again, nobody else in the sleepy little seaside town remembers.

He rarely speaks to anyone, but when he does, his voice is sweet and rich. "Mac" they call him - sometimes "damned hippy" because of his hair.

Mostly they leave him alone.

He prefers that.

Summer evenings were the best, with the grey blue of the slowly darkening sky giving way to the bright lights from the neon signs of stores and bars open late. Each store claimed large oversize doors that gathered small groups of faceless customers in, only to relinquish them later, spewing them forth with their light chatter and mindless banter. Their occasional laughter rolled away from the pier like some odd sea bird. He would perch, like an odd sea bird himself, near the gate to the marina to pluck the strings of his harp and play upon the souls and hearts of those that came to listen. He did not sing for them, but for himself; ever fighting to strike that fine balance between singing enough to forget and forgetting himself enough to be able to sing.

It didn't matter what the people said or did. They came and stood, crowding his space with their sun warmed bodies and filling his nostrils with the scent of skin left too long in the sand and summer sun. He did not meet their gaze; only nodding or gracing a half smile to those bold enough to lay coin or bill in his case. It didn'tt matter what he sung, and often days would roll by without a single remembrance of the lyrics and melodies played. They were not his best songs; those lay wrapped and almost forgotten in the recesses of his heart. They were often not even songs that he had written. No, he had found out long ago that people preferred the familiar and the known; and over the years he had collected enough songs to cover himself beneath them, hiding behind them, as it were, so that he didn't give himself away to the people who came to hear him play.

On good days, he prided himself in finding a balance where he could work and move without tripping over any of the painful memories that lay strewn haphazardly across his mind. On bad days, he could not forget himself or what he had done for even a moment. On those days, he sang fiercely until the last of the bars sat closed and dark for the night. He sang until his voice was hoarse then he fell into an exhausted sleep, not wanting to move to the small room that he rented, for fear that even that movement would unleash more of the past than he could bear.

Mornings following such nights were almost a relief in their discomfort. He would wake slowly, feeling his skin and lips dried by the salty night air. Slowly he would unfold, taking care not to jostle his harp, feeling the fog-drenched fabric of his shirt cold and damp against his chest. His joints were never as stiff as he thought they should be for lying on the sand strewn boards of the pier all night. Above him the gulls would claim the morning, crying their greed to the shore, or perhaps simply laughing with derision at the pitiful sight below. The laughter of the gulls was bittersweet. They proclaimed that he had lived to see another day, but also confronted him with another day to live.

It was on one such morning, when the sky was still rosy with the dawn, and the water lay like a dark mirror in the bay, that he woke to the sound of a high D string being plucked quietly, but intentionally. His eyes opened before his body could respond and he saw a small but graceful sun browned hand resting upon his harp. Too surprised to be angry, he looked above the hand, only to find his gaze locked by wide grey eyes nearly lost in a mass of dark brown hair. For a moment, he was thrown back in time to the memory of a pair of grey eyed boys he had cherished; but before he could get lost in the memory, the child spoke.

"This is what I heard," said the boy. "You were playing it last night. I heard you as I was going to sleep."

He narrowed his eyes. It had been long since he had held a conversation with anyone, and he was not inclined to change his ways. The boy withdrew his hand, but would not be put off.

"I know that it must've been you, because the music sounded like a song made with strings. What is this?" The brown hand returned to a space only inches from the instrument.

He resisted the temptation to pull the harp away from the boy, realizing that the child was simply curious. Never one to deny the needs of one so young, he licked his lips before he spoke, words from several languages swirling through his waking mind, "It's a_ kantele, _a_ gannel. . . _a harp," he replied. Feeling at the disadvantage lying down, he stretched his long limbs and came to a sitting position. From his new vantage point, he could see that the boy was small and wiry, well beyond the tender years of infancy, but still short of the awkwardness of adolescence. He thought again of pulling the instrument away from the child, but the earnest face and open set of the shoulders reminded him once more of the two that he had loved. Instead he set the instrument fully on his lap and moved it forward so that the boy could get a better look. He almost smiled at the lithe little fingers hovering over the strings, not daring to touch again and yet hungering for the contact.

"You touched the D string, _nethben,_" the term of endearment slipped through his lips unnoticed, "the others sing the notes of the alphabet, A through G and the same again plus four." He shifted his weight and let his fingers stroke the strings and turn the pegs to tune the instrument, "This harp is not a true _kantele_. I made it to follow the notes of an octave to better play the songs I am requested to sing." The low B string required some extra tuning and he tended to that before returning to look at the boy. He found himself once again under the intense scrutiny of grey eyes. He realized that the child was waiting for him to say more. "My other harp has a much simpler song. She is tuned to the pentatonic scale. All of her notes sound well together." The grey eyes did not move, save for a bright flickering of interest. Almost like a bird coming to rest.

"Come now," he said to the boy, forgetting for the moment to be gruff, "pluck the strings yourself, and listen how they sing." The small hand was lowered again, and a tentative finger stroked a string. "Here, now. Be a little bolder. She will not sing for you unless you address her properly." He demonstrated by plucking a third with his thumb and forefinger. He sensed the child biting his lower lip as he set his fingers again to the strings. This time he elicited a strong, clear note. "That was fine, eh?" He waited, then, realizing that he was out of words.

The boy did not disappoint him. After a moment the little brown fingers plucked a set of two notes. The notes hung between them clear and bright. Then the hand was withdrawn. The lesson was over.

Silence stretched between the two figures. Somehow the moment between them had been too real, and Mac found himself wanting to withdraw. He hoped that the child would leave if he ignored him long enough. He looked at the instrument in his lap and made an effort to rub the night's moisture from the harp using the tail of his shirt. That the shirt itself was still damp did not help, but he hoped that the child would not see through his ruse. After a bit, he looked up again. The boy was gone.

It was almost a week until the boy came again. Mac was surprised at how often his thoughts had strayed to the child in the meantime. The notes that the child had played echoed in his mind like a song unsung. He kept fingering the experience in his mind's eye, much as one touches on a wound or the gap of a missing tooth. He didn't know what to make of the boy.

It had been so long since he had sensed rather than seen someone, but so it was when the child reappeared. Mac was lost in some mindless refrain, giving a rather large group of tourists their due, when he felt the presence of the child nearby. He did not falter in his song, and even went on to sing another, but after that one was done, the crowd dispersed and he was free to look around. It took a few moments, but then he spied him, sitting on a wooden bench with his back to him. Mac was not sure what to do next. He surprised himself with the thought of calling out to the youth. In the end he did nothing, save for plucking the two notes on his harp that the boy had played when they met. The slight figure stiffened then looked briefly at Mac. Just as Mac believed he might come to him, the child rose and slipped away.

As the season wore on, Mac came to accept and even expect the presence of the boy. Eventually, curiosity forced the child to break his silence, and Mac found himself with an eager student and a constant shadow. After a time, he began to wonder where the child's family was. The boy was inclined to show up at odd hours, frequently late into the night. He of all people was inclined to protect privacy. He never even asked the child's name, although he wondered why it was never provided.

He would have left things alone but for the fact that, as time went on, the child looked more and more neglected. In fact, as he ruminated on the situation one night as sleep evaded him, it occurred to him that he had only seen the child wearing the same nondescript T shirt and single pair of well worn jeans. Mac allowed his eyes to shift out of focus as he looked inward, trying to remember as many details of the boy as he could. The dark hair wasn't tousled as much as it was unkempt. He was thin, too, his scrawny frame was a marked contrast to the well fed demeanor of the tourist children he had seen. Come to think of it, his face had been much rounder when first they met. Mac rolled over and chewed on his bottom lip. He was determined not to pry. He had long ago abandoned any desire for fellowship or company. He knew how quickly such entanglements rubbed open the profound loneliness in his own heart. And yet it would not sit well by him to let the child go hungry under his watch.

The next day was much as any other. Midsummer was come and gone, but the evenings were still long, the sun languishing in his long descent to the horizon. The tourists at the end of the season tended to be more bucolic as well: they walked more slowly and were more likely to congregate for some time near the player and his harp. It was not until the grey of the night to come was shadowing the sky that he was able to look for the child. He finally emerged as Mac was carefully pocketing the cash from the day into a worn leather money belt at his waist. The boy drew near, waiting patiently until he finished his task.

Mac had already decided not to shame the child by offering money. Instead he slipped the harp onto his shoulder by the strap and stood abruptly. "I am famished," he announced, "Follow me." He did not linger to see that the boy followed, but smiled to himself as he heard light footfalls behind him.

At first Mac thought to take him to a diner that he frequented occasionally; but on further thought, he decided that he had no wish to make public his gesture. They stopped instead at a small store crammed under two larger buildings. It was a family owned place; the proprietor made it his business to serve the locals who lived far from the larger supermarkets. Mac held the glass door open long enough for the boy to slip in. He gave the child one of the red plastic baskets that were stacked in the corner, and proceeded to fill in with bread, cheese and sausages. He added a couple of pears that were only slightly worse for the wear. He wanted to ask the boy what he might like to eat, but was afraid that he would be refused altogether.

By the time they left the store, darkness had fallen fully. At first Mac thought to return to his spot on the pier, but on almost on a whim, he turned his steps towards the little room that he rented. He was gratified that the child followed him – even more satisfied when he stopped trailing him and came to walk beside him.

"No music lesson tonight?" the boy asked at last, sounding a little worried.

"Music after we eat," Mac responded, "If you don't want to follow me home we can eat here on the street, but I'm for a decent meal at any rate."

The child did not respond but continued to walk at his side. They reached Mac's room without further comment. Briefly Mac wondered what the boy would think of his room. It was sparsely furnished; a simple bed in the corner, a wooden table with a single chair near the curtainless window, and a small dresser against the wall. It was devoid of decoration, save for his five toned harphung by its strap on the wall. From the corner of his eye he watched the child look over the bed, across the table and come to a wide-eyed full stop when he saw the instrument. Mac found himself smiling at the unabashed interest of the child.

"First we eat?" asked the boy.

Mac had to bite his lower lip to regain his sober composure. "Yeah, first we eat," he admonished, and then set about unpacking the groceries.

If he had doubts about the hunger of the child, they were fully resolved within a few minutes of starting the meal. The sausage went untouched, but one of the pears was quickly devoured followed by four slices of bread heavily laden with cheese. Mac had to make a couple of trips to the bathroom down the hall to refill the boy's water glass. When he came back from the second trip, the child was reaching for the second pear. When he saw Mac, his hand stopped midair. Mac raised his eyebrows and the said soberly, "That one is for you as well, _nethben, _but you will need to wash your hands before you touch the harps." The boy nodded his acquiescence and eagerly reached for the fruit.

After he had eaten his fill, the boy sighed in satisfaction, a sweet smile graced his lips and his grey eyes were shining with pleasure. Mac found himself smiling at the young figure before him. The boy reminded him of a song about a cat drinking milk that he had composed as a child. Without stopping to reconsider he took the harp from its place on the wall and quickly tuned it.

The melody of the song was still in his fingers, but the words eluded him for a moment or two. Once remembered, he took no time to translate the words, but sang the song in its original language. The boy caught the spirit of the piece and soon a wide grin graced his face. Before the end of the song the child was actually laughing. It took a moment for Mac to realize that he was laughing too.

"Is that a song you wrote?" asked the child when he was done. Mac nodded. "Sing me another," he begged. And Mac obliged.

The evening grew late as Mac played for his audience of one. For once it did not break his heart to remember. Indeed he found that most of his remembrances this evening were of happy things not sad. As he sang he felt a great weight give way from his heart. Looking into the bright eyes of the child before him restored him in ways he could not name. It was with great reluctance he noted that the boy was getting tired. The child suppressed a yawn several times and his eyes were growing heavy. Briefly Mac wondered if anyone would miss the boy if he did not return home for the night – if indeed he had a home to return to. Without taking time to consider things further, Mac began to play a lullaby, one that he had written for his foster sons so very long ago. The boy yawned again then rested his head on his folded arms at the table. He was soon fast asleep.

Mac continued playing for some time before setting the harp aside to move the child onto the bed. For himself, he stretched out on the floor and slid into sleep with less trouble than he had had in years.

He was not prepared for the sobbing that rent the night air in the hour or so before dawn. He had forgotten that he wasn't on the bed, and as he scrambled to his feet he hit his shoulder hard against the edge of the table. The momentary distraction did nothing to quell the sound of sorrow that filled the room. Mac was at a loss until he remembered that the boy was in the bed. Quickly, he knelt beside the small figure, thankful for the moonlight that bathed the room in silver light.

The boy was curled in upon himself, his dark wild hair spilling across the white surface of the pillow. His hands were tightly balled into fists and shoved against his eyes, his body racked with sobs coming from deep within. Mac could not tell if he was asleep or awake.

"_Nethben?" _ he asked quietly, reaching his long fingers to rest against the child's shoulder. Without thinking, he slipped into his native tongue. "_Avo osto, nethben._ _Geril únad ostad__." _ He rubbed small circles on the boy's back. Deep sobs continued to rack the small body and he began to whimper. For a moment, Mac was at a loss as to what to do. Then swiftly he wrapped his arms around the boy and scooped him into his lap.

He was surprised at how light the child was. As he drew him into a secure embrace he savored the weight of the small body next to his. It was far too easy to feel the ribs of the little one and the narrow bone of his spine. He felt his young heart beating as well, much too swiftly for a child at rest. _"Loro, mellon __nîn__.__ Im sí al le__," _he crooned to the boy. The child hiccoughed and then breathed a deep sigh. Mac felt a shifting in his arms. The boy was awake.

For a moment, Mac found himself worried that the little one would break free of his hold. He was surprised to find that he did not want to boy to leave. The lad did struggle for a moment or two, but then relaxed and lay his head against Mac's chest. The wave of protective love that surged through Mac's body was almost intense enough to make him cry. No, he did not want to let this little one go.

The silence rested between them. Finally, Mac asked, "Would it help for you to tell me your dream?" At first the boy shook his head. Then he nodded.

"I dreamt about my father."

"Your father?" The boy turned so that he could gaze into Mac's face. Mac felt that he was being tested. He hoped he wasn't found wanting. After a moment the child continued.

"He has been away so very long. I miss him. Everybody misses him."

"Where has he gone?"

Silence again. Only this time it seemed as though the boy were gathering his thoughts. He twisted in Mac's lap so that he could turn his face to the moonlight. The light skimmed over boy's pale features. His grey eyes were ringed in long dark lashes. His face was slender, highlighting high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Mac was struck by the innocent beauty before him. Finally, the boy spoke.

"My father is a great man. There are so many stories about him that I can't begin to tell them all. I have heard that he has a great laugh. He loves, or at least he used to love his family a lot. He knows how to tell stories and he can sing and he is a really great leader. He knows how to keep people safe. He likes to play silly tricks on people and he especially likes kids. Everybody loves him for his gentle loving spirit and . . ." the boy's voice trailed off. When he continued it was in a much smaller voice, " I don't know why he won't come home. I think sometimes he doesn't love me anymore."

_How could someone not love this child? _ thought Mac to himself. Aloud, he said, "Your father sounds like a very good person_._"

"He isn't all good," said the boy, stiffening and looking down at his hands. "He made some really bad mistakes, too."

Mac waited patiently for the boy to continue.

"He always wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to make his father proud of him."

"There is nothing wrong with that," said Mac.

"But you don't understand," said the boy with a deep sigh, "My grandfather walked a dark path. He wound up loving his treasure more than he loved his family. He chose badly and he used the loyalty of his sons so that they made bad choices as well. He made them make a promise that caused a lot of people to be killed. My dad even killed some people himself. He couldn't break his promise to his father because that was wrong and he loved his dad and he couldn't hurt people because that was wrong, but his dad said that he had to obey because nobody else loved him not even the . . ."

Mac narrowed his eyes. The story stirred his memories far too violently for comfort. "Stop!" he cried, "Who are you? What is your name?"

The boy scrambled from his Mac's lap and set himself against the wall. He looked frightened, but there was a determined tilt to his chin. He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand and spoke, "The Valar sent me. My image was woven by Vaire and Nienna from a tapestry of things that might yet come. I do not belong to this time or place. My time with you is all but done."

"But why have you come?"

The child sighed. "I told you. The Valar have forgiven you, but you will not listen."

Mac felt a great anger welling from deep inside. He rose to his feet. He did not know this child. The boy had no idea how hard it was to maintain a balance, to keep the lid pressed firmly down over the pain inside. The Valar? Where had the Valar been for the last sixty yeni? Blindly he scooped the harp from the table and slung it over his shoulder. He twisted the door handle and yanked on the door. The door slammed open against the wall. In the brief silence that followed, the child spoke.

"My name is Maglorion. I am your son."

Maglor felt his knees give way under him. The harp rang in protest as he stumbled to the chair. "Do you mock me?" he cried, "I have no son. No son, no wife, no family. All of my love perished under the weight of the cursed oath. I gave my blood and the lives of my brothers to regain the holy Simarils, but when I touched them, they burned my hands. Look, you! Do these hands look like one who has the forgiveness of the Valar?" He thrust his hands toward the child.

The child gazed his hands, his eyes riveted on the scars that etched deep furrows in Maglor's palms. Slowly he came forward and clasped one of Maglor's hands. Maglor closed his eyes and shuddered. The feel of the small hands grasping his was almost too wonderful to bear. Carefully, with a single finger, the boy traced the scars that laced Maglor's hands. After a time, he spoke in a voice low and clear.

"Tell me Ada, what do you love more, me or these scars?"

Maglor's eyes snapped open, only to meet the deep grey eyes of the child before him. Even as he watched, the boy began to fade. His body slid into a white mist. Just before the mist was gone altogether, Maglor heard a whisper in his heart.

"Come home, Ada, please come home."

_Loro, mellon __nîn__.__ Im sí al le__,_._" Listen, my friend. I'm here with you. You are not alone._

_Avo osto, nethben._ _Geril únad ostad__ Don't be afraid, little one. There is nothing to fear_

_Kantele – a small Gaelic harp_

_Gannel – harp_

_Nethben- little one_


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter is for eiluj:_

_________________________________________________________________________

Dawn slid across the cold water of the bay, banishing the fog that had gathered during the night. The seagulls cried welcome to the new day, skimming over the boats of the marina looking for tidbits to break their fast. There was little food to be had. Decks, for the most part, had been swept clean and there was nothing on the pier, save for a small harp and a worn leather money belt with a few bills and coins.


End file.
